


Something in the Making

by FanOfFandoms



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:57:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1786414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanOfFandoms/pseuds/FanOfFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"One thing Fitz had noticed since moving to New York was that America had a lot of sandwich shops and not a single one could make his favourite sandwich." - AU in which Simmons can only find work in a sandwich shop and Fitz works for a flashy company; this combination discovers the best sandwich in the world made in the best possible way with so much more to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How Fitz met Simmons (and vice versa)

Leo Fitz had just moved to New York from Scotland on a transfer to the main headquarters of the engineering company he’d been working for since the age of fifteen. His mother had pushed him into it, really; she’d said that moving to New York was a ‘once in a lifetime opportunity’ and that it meant ‘big things, Leo, _big things_ ’. In fact, Fitz had never heard so many typical clichés in one conversation before he’d had the discussion with his mother about the transfer.

But he’d moved to America anyway, knowing that he probably _wouldn’t_ get another chance to work for a company as big as SciTech International and rather smug about the fact that he’d be leading the engineering department of the company at the age of just nineteen.    

But the one thing he’d noticed since moving into his flashy, company-provided apartment was that America had a _lot_ of sandwich shops and not a single one could make his favourite sandwich.

He’d been driven insane regarding his favourite lunchtime meal, a specific recipe handed down from his great-grandmother that he just _couldn’t_ make himself, during the three months he’d been living in the city; he’d heard everything and anything that meant that he wouldn’t get his sandwich the way he wanted it:

_“I’m sorry, I don’t know what that is.”_

_“Never heard of it, sorry.”_

_“So... that’s just fancy ham and cheese, right?”_

Fitz had tried twenty different sandwich shops and not one, _not one_ , knew how to make a prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with a hint of aioli.

Which was precisely what was on the young engineer’s mind as he walked to work one morning late in December and it was safe to say that it wasn’t putting him in the best of moods.

He walked into the building, sighing contentedly in the sudden warmth as he pulled his scarf from around his neck.

“Good morning, Mr Fitz,” Alyssa, the woman who sat behind the festively-decorated desk, said, smiling at him as she did every morning.

“Good morning, Alyssa,” Fitz replied, “How are you today?”

“Very well, thank you,” Alyssa replied, handing him his ID badge (which she graciously kept behind the desk for him due to the fact that Fitz himself had a brain so scattered he’d put the badge down and never find it again if she didn’t). “And yourself?” she asked as he clipped the badge to his shirt pocket.

“I’d be better if I could find someone who could make my sandwich right,” he replied, smiling wryly, “I’ll see you later.”

Fitz went up eleven floors to the engineering department, which was already in such chaos that thoughts of his beloved sandwich completely left his mind the minute he stepped out of the elevator.

It wasn’t until one o’clock came around that he thought of it again. He sighed, accepting defeat as he realised that he would probably never get his perfect sandwich, heading back down to the lobby to leave his badge at the desk before finding something else for lunch.

“Have you tried the sandwich shop on Eighty Third Street?” Alyssa asked when he passed her his badge with a grateful smile. Fitz frowned.

“I didn’t know there _was_ a sandwich shop on Eighty Third.” He said. Alyssa shrugged.

“You could try there for your sandwich,” she offered, “They have quite a bizarre menu.” Fitz looked thoughtful.

“Maybe I will,” he said, “Thanks, Alyssa.”

Fitz practically ran to Eighty Third Street, just around the corner from the skyscraper building that housed his workplace. The shop was reasonably busy when he reached it, but there was no line to the counter and a few empty tables dotted around.

Standing behind the desk was a woman who couldn’t have been older than Fitz himself. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her eyes sparkled as she looked up from the till and smiled at him.

“Hello there,” she said, her voice so light and happy and _British_ (and, _God,_ had it been a long time since he’d heard someone who wasn’t his mother with an accent like that) that it just made Fitz want to smile, “What can I get you?”

“Er, your phone number would be nice,” Fitz said, before his eyes widened and he realised what he’d said, “That was a joke. Well, unless you’d like to take it seriously because you’re really very pretty, but... definitely a joke.” He blushed furiously, inwardly cursing himself for being a complete and utter idiot and making a fool of himself.

The woman simply laughed, “That was sweet,” she told him, caught offguard by his Scottish accent and finding the way it got thicker as he babbled just _adorable_ , “Perhaps not until after our first date though.” Fitz smiled slightly, still recovering from the sudden burst of confidence that left him in his current pit of embarrassment.

“Well, thank you for making me feel a bit less like an idiot,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck subconsciously, “But all joking aside,” he looked hopeful, “I don’t suppose you know how to make a prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with a hint of aioli, do you?” the woman smiled.

“Coming right up.” She replied. Fitz’s eyes widened.

“Really?” he asked, shocked, “You... you can make me that?” the woman shrugged, nodding.

“Of course,” she replied, “Why?”

Fitz shook his head, “I have been to twenty different sandwich shops and not one of them could make me that sandwich!” he muttered.

“Well,” the woman grinned, “I suppose today is your lucky day, then.”

Fitz met her eyes for a moment, blue meeting brown as he smiled, “I suppose it is,” he replied.

“Why don’t you go and sit down?” the woman said, “I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.”

“Are you sure?” Fitz asked, “I can wait?” the woman rolled her eyes, still smiling.

“There’s a table free by the window that gives you a great view of the area,” she said. Fitz simply smiled, handing her a ten-dollar bill.

“Thanks,” he said, walking to the table she’d pointed out.

“Oh, er...” the woman stopped him, “Your sandwich is only five dollars.” Fitz shrugged.

“Keep the change,” he replied, sitting down at the table and looking out of the window, taking in the liveliness of New York City as the woman behind the counter smiled slightly, the thought popping into her head that the man she’d just spoken to must really love his favourite sandwich.

* * *

Fitz looked away from the window when a plate was put down in front of him.

“One prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with a hint of aioli.” Fitz grinned.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, “You have no idea how much I have missed eating this sandwich.” The woman from behind the counter smiled before handing him a piece of paper. Fitz smiled confusedly, “What’s this?”

“My phone number,” the woman said, sitting down opposite him with a sandwich of her own, “I know I said I wouldn’t give it to you until _after_ our first date but you’ve technically already bought me a sandwich so...” she shrugged, blushing slightly. She got a hold of herself and held a hand out to him, “I’m Jemma Simmons. Most people just call me Simmons.”

Fitz smiled, shaking her hand, “Leo Fitz. Most people just call me Fitz.”

“So, what do you do, Fitz?” Simmons asked, “What’s your area of expertise?”

“Er, engineering, actually,” he said, taking a bite out of his sandwich and freezing, “Oh my,” he muttered, “This is the best sandwich I’ve ever eaten in my life.” Simmons laughed.

“Well, I’m glad I could make it for you,” she said, “I can’t believe nowhere else could make it!”

“They didn’t even know what it _was_ ,” Fitz said, sounding heartbroken, “Three months I’ve been looking for this sandwich!” Simmons laughed and Fitz found it hard to believe that she had actually _given him her phone number_ because she really _was_ very pretty and she seemed intelligent and was that even _allowed_ in a single person?!

“So,” he said, trying to think of anything but how pretty the girl across from him was, “What do _you_ do? You don’t seem to be the type of girl to work in a sandwich shop. Not that I’m complaining because this sandwich really is amazing.” Simmons laughed again.

“I only work here because I can’t find work anywhere else,” she shrugged, taking another bite of her own sandwich, “ _My_ area of expertise is biochemistry.” Fitz almost lost his mouthful of sandwich.

“You... you’re a scientist.” He said after swallowing with some difficulty. Simmons raised her eyebrows.

“Surprised?” she asked playfully. Fitz scoffed.

“Well, I’d guessed that you were smart, but...” he smiled disbelievingly, “ _Biochemistry_! That’s... just... brilliant.”

They spent the next half an hour chatting before Fitz remembered that he actually had a job that he should probably be getting back to.

“Ah...” he groaned, checking his watch, “I should probably go... I’m working on a big new project and I’m supposed to be watching over the junior engineers and...” he grimaced apologetically at Simmons, “Sorry.” He finished. Simmons rolled her eyes.

“I should probably get back to work myself,” she said, glancing reluctantly over the several now-empty but very untidy tables. She turned back to Fitz and smiled, “It was nice meeting you, Fitz,” she said, “And I will happily make you a sandwich anytime you like.” Fitz grinned, standing up and slipping his coat on.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Simmons,” he replied, “And I will most definitely take you up on that offer.” With a wave and one more ‘thank you’, he was running back into the freezing December afternoon, hoping that his department wasn’t in too much of a mess when he finally returned.

* * *

Their fortunate chance meeting that first afternoon quickly became a routine for the two. Fitz would turn up at one o’clock, on the dot, Monday to Friday, and order his prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with a hint of aioli. He would always overpay, and Simmons let him buy her a sandwich, joining him at the table by the window.

They would chat, talk science, and complain about how different America was from Britain. Over time, they grew closer until one Friday afternoon at the end of March, Fitz paused in the doorway on his way out.

“Would you like come over to my place one night?” he asked. The sandwich shop was practically empty, as it always was on a Friday, so Simmons immediately turned around to face him from the table she’d been clearing.

“Your place?” she asked, a shocked look on her face. Fitz nodded.

“Like... where I live,” he said, wondering how he was still feeling confident because he hadn’t gotten this far when asking a girl out before, “Not exactly a date but... I have some classic Doctor Who episodes on my laptop and I could make us dinner? Like... something that isn’t a sandwich?” Simmons seemed to consider for a moment before smiling.

“I’d love to,” she said happily, “Erm... when are you free?” Fitz shrugged.

“We could do it... tomorrow?” he suggested, “If you’re free that is. I mean, I could probably still do it on my own but it wouldn’t be nearly as interesting or fun and-”

“Tomorrow is perfect,” Simmons interrupted him, inwardly still finding his babbling adorable, despite the fact that she’d known him for months and he did it all the time.

“Right,” Fitz said, smiling in relief, “So... five o’clock at mine? I’ll text you the address.” Simmons nodded.

“I’ll see you then,” she agreed.

“Right, okay,” Fitz pushed the door open, tripping over the step. He caught his balance then looked back, embarrassed, “Bye.” Simmons giggled quietly.

“Bye!” she called after him as he started jogging back towards the SciTech building. She sighed happily before returning to cleaning the tables, suddenly looking forward to her weekend a lot more than she had done when she woke up that morning.

 


	2. How FitzSimmons met SHIELD

FitzSimmons became nearly inseparable after their first meeting in the sandwich shop (with what the two scientists had come to call _that sandwich_ ) and their eventual date-that-wasn’t-really-a-date, which consisted of them watching classic _Doctor Who_ episodes into the wee hours of the morning, until Simmons fell asleep on Fitz’s shoulder and the young engineer got very incredibly awkward.

Despite the awkwardness, however, and the copious amount of blushing from Simmons the following morning, the two made it a regular thing. They alternated whose apartment they would go to and watched every _Doctor Who_ episode the two of them collectively owned (which was all of them, apparently), and then started to re-watch them from the very start.

It was on one of those evenings, around a year after their first meeting, when Fitz and Simmons were first contacted by S.H.I.E.L.D. As it interrupted one of the now frequent _Doctor Who_ marathons, however, neither of them was particularly impressed by it.

The knock sounded at the door and Fitz groaned quietly, reluctantly pulling himself off his incredibly comfortable couch.

“I told you I should get a sign,” he joked, Simmons rolling her eyes in response.

“You can’t just put a sign on your door saying ‘don’t knock’!” she protested, “It’s rude.”

“I’m Scottish, I’m allowed to be rude!” Fitz called back, heading to the door, “I don’t possess any of your good-girl English values about being polite to people!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s racist!” Simmons protested, though the cheerfulness in her tone belied any seriousness her accusation might have held.

Fitz took the chain off the door and opened it, “Yes?” he asked, trying to keep at least _some_ of the impatience from his tone. He looked the two men in suits standing in the hallway up and down critically, “Can I help you?”

“Leopold Fitz?” one of the men asked.

“Is the godforsaken name my mother gave me, yes,” Fitz replied, “Now, could you make this quick? I’m sort of in the middle of something.”

“Oh, we’re quite aware,” the other man said, “We’d like to talk to Miss Jemma Simmons as well, if you would.”

Fitz heard Simmons drop what he would guess was her mug of tea with a squeak.

“Oh!” she said, sounding regretful, “That was a perfect cup of tea...” She was by his side not five seconds later, “You want to talk to me too?” she asked, looking as confused as she felt.

“That’s correct,” the second man said, “May we come in?”

“I don’t tend to practice letting strangers into my home,” Fitz said quickly. He heard Simmons snort slightly behind him, apparently finding his statement funny; it had, after all, taken him three months to invite her back to his apartment, so she was fully aware of his ‘no strangers’ policy. “Why are you here?”

“We have a proposition for you both,” the first man said, “A proposition from an organisation that works alongside the American government.” The man and his partner held out badges that even Fitz couldn’t find fault or fraud in. The engineer sighed, muttering under his breath as he nodded, opening the door wider to let them in.

“Stupid men, knocking on my door at six o'clock in the evening on a Saturday, Saturdays are _Doctor Who days_ , why do people not understand this?!” Simmons nudged him with her elbow to tell him to stop rambling and he did so (albeit reluctantly).

“Can we, er... get you anything?” Simmons asked tentatively when they were all standing awkwardly in Fitz’s living room.

“No, thank you,” the first man-in-a-suit said, “We should probably get straight down to business.”

“Before you ask, we are firmly against using our genius for evil and we don’t care how much you’re willing to pay us.”

“ _Fitz_!” Simmons hissed reprimandingly, “He’s joking,” she said quickly, tuning to the two men, “Not that he has much knowledge of _accurate times to apply humour_.” She continued, turning to glare at Fitz.

“Don’t worry, Miss Simmons,” one of the men said, “Mr Fitz wasn’t far off of our offer.” Fitz’s eyes widened slightly.

“Well, I’ve been known to be right every so often,” he said, hoping his sarcasm would cover up his shock at being asked to essentially be an evil genius (not that he was completely opposed to it... being evil could have its perks and he already had the genius part covered).

“We don’t suppose you’ve heard of S.H.I.E.L.D.?” the second man asked, ignoring the sarcasm in Fitz’s tone. When neither of the scientists showed any recognition at the name, the man continued, “S.H.I.E.L.D. is an organisation that... specialises in dealing the extraordinary.”

“Extraordinary is hardly a definitive term,” Fitz said sceptically, crossing his arms and staring at the two men with an unrelenting and judgmental glare.

“It deals with the supernatural, Mr Fitz,” the first man said, “Technology that isn’t accessible for the general public. Experiments gone wrong and experiments gone _too right_. Things that are too strange to be public knowledge and too delicate to be dealt with by governmental services.”

Fitz and Simmons glanced at each other with looks of confusion and curiosity.

“And you want us to work for this... S.H.I.E.L.D. thing?” Fitz asked.

“Essentially, yes,” the first man spoke again, “You would be expected to attend the academy and complete several assessments in order to join, but we’re offering the chance to join the agency.”

“Are we correct in thinking that you both have a PhD?” the second man asked.

FitzSimmons looked at each other smugly, “We’ve got several PhDs,” Simmons assured him, sounding rightfully pleased about the fact. The suited men remained as stoic as ever.

“Then, should you accept our offer, we’d like to begin the briefing process right away.” FitzSimmons shared yet another look.

“And what would we be doing, exactly?” Fitz asked, turning back to the two men.

“Experimental research.” The first man told him.

“Oh!” Simmons smiled fondly, “Those are two of my favourite words!”

“What kind of experimental research?” Fitz asked, deliberately being difficult in an attempt to keep his cool in front of Simmons, who always appeared to be so calm and collected; inside, however, his stomach was doing back flips with excitement at the prospect of being able to work on his own projects.

“That’s the experimental part.” The two men seemed to be getting impatient, shuffling slightly on their feet. Fitz turned to look at Simmons, slightly unsure.

“I’ll do it if you will?” he offered tentatively. Simmons’ face lit up in a smile as she looked at the two men in suits (who she secretly thought were rather rude for not actually introducing themselves).

“Well, gentlemen,” she said, “It looks like we’ve got a deal.”


	3. How FitzSimmons Left for SHIELD

The morning after S.H.I.E.L.D.’s impromptu visit, FitzSimmons found themselves waiting impatiently in Fitz’s apartment, their belongings packed up in a variation of bags and boxes.

“Do you think there’ll be enough room for all of our stuff?” Simmons asked worriedly after almost ten minutes of sitting in silence. Fitz looked around at their six suitcases, four duffel bags and a collection of other containers holding their numerous science projects.

“I hope so,” Fitz muttered in reply, “Because if we have to leave anything behind, I’m afraid my clothes are going to take the fall.” Simmons smiled slightly, but didn’t make any comment on Fit’s joke. The man sighed. “Sim- Jemma…” he said quietly, moving from the sofa he was sat on to sit next to her on the other couch, “What’s the matter? Don’t you want to do this?”

“No!” Simmons said quickly, “No, that’s not it! This is a fantastic opportunity and, by the sounds of it, we’re getting it for free, which makes it a _once in a lifetime_ opportunity. But… I don’t know, Fitz, aren’t we a little bit out of our comfort zones here?” Fit shrugged slightly after a moment.

“Probably,” he replied, “But how many great scientists got anywhere by staying in their comfort zones? Come on, Simmons, we… we need to get out there a bit. I was lucky to get the job at the SciTech building; you’ve been working in a sandwich shop for god knows how long and, as much as your prosciutto and buffalo mozzarella sandwich with a hint of aioli is heavenly, that is definitely a complete waste of pure _genius_ , Jemma! Listen, we’ve known each other for, what, a year now? Think about all those theories we’ve come up with. Think of all the projects we’ve started but couldn’t finish because we didn’t have the materials. _Think_ , Jemma, about how amazing it’ll be to finally be somewhere we can at least _test_ all of this crap!”

“I want that as much as you do, Fitz,” Simmons insisted, “Honestly, I do! But… oh, I just feel like we’re in a pool when we can’t swim and we’re getting thrown into the deep end.” Fitz smiled slightly.

“Simmons, don’t you see?” he asked, “We’re not getting out of our comfort zones, we’re getting _in_ to them. We’ve got six PhDs between us and we’re not even twenty yet! Not to sound conceited but we’re _smart_. It’s about time we got to do something with that.” Simmons studied him for a moment, a smile growing on her face the longer she looked. “What is it?” Fitz eventually asked, slightly concerned by Simmons’ lack of reply.

“Once upon a time,” she said, “You were the babbling idiot and I was the one who talked you into stuff you were too nervous to do. Now you’re the one who’s showing me up and making me look like all of my worries are ridiculous.” She bumped his arm with her elbow gently, a teasing smile on her face. Fitz smirked in return.

“Oh, your worries aren’t ridiculous, Jemma,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and hugging her slightly, “I’m terrified too. But I’m hoping S.H.I.E.L.D.’s range of high-tech equipment and super-sciencey science labs will snap me out of that.”

“Yes, well, you’re right, of course,” Simmons said, leaning into his embrace, “We should feel right at home when we get to these S.H.I.E.L.D. labs. I wonder if they’ll have a mass spectrometer…”

“I hope they have a building that they don’t mind me setting fire to,” Fitz said, grinning. Simmons rolled her eyes.

“Fitz, I’m not entirely sure that that’s the best way to make a first impression,” she said.

“Well, I suppose I could wait a week or two…”

 

* * *

 

The two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents from the day before knocked on Fitz’s door at exactly ten o’clock (resulting in a muttered rant from Fitz, “Stupid men in suits, turning up on time, they’re going to make me look bad in the future, I can just _tell…_ ”).

“Good morning,” Simmons said brightly from behind Fitz as they stood together and opened the door.

“I hope you’ve got big cars,” Fitz said simply, picking up the two bags nearest the door and passing them to the men, “Because we’ve got a lot of very important stuff that really can’t be left behind.”

The two men looked slightly disgruntled at being turned into removal men but took the bags they’d been given down the stairs, taking care not to trip and fall (because then they really _would_ feel Fitz’s wrath which was far more terrifying than anyone thought before experiencing it).

Once almost everything had been taken down, Fitz and Simmons sent the men away under the pretence that they were ‘checking for anything we’ve forgotten’.

When they were finally alone in the apartment again, the two of them sat back down on Fitz’s couch, which held so many memories.

“Do you remember-” they both started together, stopped talking and then laughed quietly.

“You first,” Fitz said, nudging her with his elbow.

“Do you remember when I had that thing with that guy,” Simmons said, looking at him almost shyly, “And it all went pear-shaped? And I turned up on your doorstep at half one in the morning and we sat right here and had tea and you said ‘no man is worth your tears’?” Fitz grinned.

“I do,” he replied, “And I hope you appreciated that cheesy line!” Simmons smiled at him.

“I always appreciate your cheesy lines,” she retorted.

“Do you remember,” Fitz said, knowing that she was about to start teasing him and also knowing that he always ended up _blushing_ when she did that (honestly, it was like his body was completely unprepared to aid him in any situation involving a pretty girl), “The first time you came over? And I made bangers and mash and we had tea whilst watching _Doctor Who_?” It was Simmons’ turn to blush.

“And I fell asleep on you and you were too polite to say or do anything about it?” she finished for him, “Yes, funnily enough, Fitz, I hadn’t forgotten.” She smirked at him and he grinned back.

“I’m going to miss this.” He said quietly. Simmons smile turned slightly sad.

“Me too,” she said, “But we’re not losing everything,” she placed her hand on top of his, squeezing it lightly, “At least we have each other.” Fitz looked from her face to their hands before reciprocating her action, squeezing her hand back.

“At least we have each other.” He agreed. He stood up, his hand still holding hers. “Come on,” he murmured, “We should go.” Simmons nodded, standing up as well.

With one final glance around the apartment, they picked up the last of their bags and then walked out, Fitz closing the door behind them, hesitating before pushing his keys through the letterbox.

“We’re screwed if we genuinely have forgotten something now,” he said, trying to lighten their moods. Simmons actually laughed, which was more than he’d been expecting.

“I’m sure we could find a way to get back in,” she said, a slight twinkle in her eye. Fitz smirked.

“Well, of course,” he said as they walked down the corridor towards the stairs side-by-side, “But it wouldn’t _technically_ be what’s considered to be ‘legal’...”


	4. How FitzSimmons Started at SHIELD

It was safe to say that FitzSimmons’ first few weeks at the Academy were less than not-chaotic.

They had arrived at SciTech (Fitz blanching slightly at the fact that he had _worked_ for SciTech for goodness sake and ‘ _what did they mean it was a branch of recruitment, he was better than everyone else there!’_ ) and were immediately introduced to Agent Weaver.

“Mr Fitz, Miss Simmons,” she said, inviting them into her office and shaking each of their hands in turn, “It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“Well, thank you for having us,” Simmons said, slightly nervous as they sat down; she’d seen several people as they were guided through the building who looked fully capable of inventing some kind of black hole device and she wasn’t quite sure they were the kind of students she wanted to be in competition with.

“I’m sure the men who brought you here were incredibly vague,” she said almost sympathetically.

“Well, yes, I suppose you could say that,” Fitz murmured sarcastically. Simmons nudged him reproachfully with her elbow. Weaver smiled.

“I apologise for that,” she said, “But, when you’re part of an organisation like S.H.I.E.L.D., you can never be too careful.”

“Of course,” Simmons said, “We understand that. Don’t we, Fitz?” she prompted her best friend.

“Of course,” Fitz echoed.

“It’s clear to me that the two of you are close,” the agent before them said, “Have you ever worked together before.

“Yes.”

“No.”

They spoke simultaneously, glancing at each other when their answers contrasted.

“Not officially,” Simmons clarified, realising that her ‘no’ was possibly too quick; she and Fitz had worked together on numerous projects before. They’d just never had the permission, nor the materials, the implement them.

“We’ve played around with a few ideas,” Fitz told her.

“And you didn’t think to use SciTech, the company, that is, to put these into practice?” Weaver asked her eyebrows raised. FitzSimmons shared another look.

“We... tried once,” Simmons said carefully.

“It didn’t go too well,” Fitz added.

“There may have been a...” she grimaced slightly, unsure of how to put it in a way that wouldn’t get them sacked before they’d even been hired.

“A small incident,” Fitz continued, “Involving flames. And a fire alarm.” Weaver’s eyebrows lifted even higher and FitzSimmons were both immediately aware that that had perhaps _not_ been the way to put it.

“I hadn’t received any reports of any fires within the SciTech building in the last year.” Weaver said.

“Oh, you thought...” Fitz’s face took on a look of realisation, “No, no, we didn’t set the fire alarm _off_.”

“No, we sort of... set it _on_ ,” Simmons concluded, “On... on fire. We set the fire alarm on fire.” Weaver fixed the two of them with an authoritative look.

“Like I said, we’ve been playing around with a few ideas.” Fitz repeated. He glanced at Simmons to his right and they made a silent pact to just _stop talking_ unless asked a question.

Weaver studied them both for another moment before opening two files in front of her, “Well, I can’t deny that the two of you look to be very promising additions to the Academy,” she noted, “Three PhDs apiece... how old are you?” she checked.

“Twenty,” not for the first (and certainly not the last) time, FitzSimmons spoke together.

“I’m older,” Fitz noted.

“Twenty three days, Fitz!”

“It’s still twenty three days older than you!” they caught each other’s eyes and stopped, turning back to Weaver with slight blushes on their faces.

Weaver shook her head in wonder, “Incredible,” she murmured. “Originally, we were only looking to recruit you, Mr Fitz,” she said, looking to the Scotsman, essentially ignoring their exchange, “But when you made acquaintances with Miss Simmons...” she turned to the woman next to him and shrugged, “Well, it would be a shame to let you go, I can say that much.” She closed the files and interlocked her fingers as she rested her hands on the desk “So. Our proposition for you:

“A typical student spends around five years at this Academy,” she explains, “Sometimes more, sometimes less. It really depends on whether or not a position opens up for you. It is our policy here at SciTech that you need at least one PhD to get in the door - just to give you an idea of what sort of students you’ll meet here. Most students will continue on some kind of doctorate course until their third year, after which they will begin to specialise in something that S.H.I.E.L.D. will find particularly useful.”

“Stuff like weapons manufacturing?” Fitz asked curiously. Weaver nodded.

“Amongst other things,” she said, “There are several qualities within the science and technology departments that is considered useful by those higher up.”

“You said ‘most students’,” Simmons said, her mind doing overtime to try and work out exactly what Weaver’s ‘proposition’ was, “Implying that... we’re not ‘most’?” Weaver smiled.

“You’ll learn quickly that I take pride in students who can use their initiative,” she told her, “And that’s exactly what I was implying. You were told that you were going to be doing experimental research?” the two nodded and she continued, “Well, that’s exactly it. Over the last few years, S.H.I.E.L.D. has... been needed more often. Advances in technology and in intelligence have meant that people are finding more ingenious ways to cause trouble. We, therefore, need some ingenious ways to stop them.”

“So weapons manufacturing?” Fitz said.

“In part,” Weaver said, “Though I’m hoping you can think of something slightly _more_ ingenious than weapons.”

“Oh, he can,” Simmons said with a slight roll of her eyes, “He’s just trying to work out if you’ll be playing to the stereotype that most employers look for in engineering students.”

“The amount of times I’ve said I’m an engineer and people have either started talking about cars or weapons...” Fitz muttered.

“Trust me when I say that you will not come into contact with those stereotypes at SciTech, Mr Fitz,” Weaver assured him, “Your research will be largely between the two of you and your supervising officer. He will decide what classes you go to and how much time you will dedicate to your research. Should you accept our offer to join us, that is.” She looked at the two questioningly for a moment and it took them a second to realise that she actually wanted an answer.

“Well,” Fitz shrugged, “We already packed up all our stuff.”

“And I cancelled the lease on my apartment,” Simmons added.

“And I posted my keys through my letterbox so I’m locked out forever,” Fitz said, Simmons smirking slightly at his exaggeration.

“It’d be a tad ridiculous to say no,” Simmons said, becoming more serious, “This is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“That it is,” Weaver confirmed, “So, can we make this official?”

“Wait,” Fitz said, sitting forward slightly, “We’ll be working together? Like... like partners?”

“We believe that the two of you will do best together,” Weaver said, “So, yes, Mr Fitz, you will be partners, unless we see any reason to change the situation.” Fitz looked to Simmons who shrugged.

“We really can’t say no.” She pointed out.

“No, I suppose we can’t,” Fitz agreed. They both looked to Agent Weaver.

“Okay.” Simmons said.

“We’ll work for you,” Fitz agreed. Weaver simply smiled and passed them their contracts over her desk.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks later had Simmons sprinting through the Academy with five incredibly large scrolls of blueprints in her arms. She almost knocked over a grand total of eight people on her way from the chemistry labs to Fitz’s dorm room.

When she finally got there, she managed to enter his key-code with her elbow, shoving the door open and running to his bed where she finally deposited the plans they’d been working on over the previous two weeks.

“Next time,” she panted, pointing a finger at her friend, “ _You_ are getting the plans!” Fitz looked innocently at her, reclining in his computer chair and sipping from his tea.

“If you say so, Simmons,” he said nonchalantly. Simmons glared at him slightly but didn’t respond to his teasing.

She crossed the room to the little shelf he had in the corner where a kettle was plugged in, pots of tea bags and sugar next to it with milk in the mini-fridge underneath. She plucked her mug from the mug tree and set about making her own cup of tea.

“So,” she said, setting the kettle to boil, “Did you work out how to make them work?” Fitz frowned.

“No,” he said grumpily, “I didn’t. It’ driving me insane.”

“Is it the coding again?” she asked sympathetically.

“Yes it’s the bloody coding!” Fitz exploded. Simmons turned back to the kettle, rolling her eyes fondly; this was not the first time since they’d arrived at SciTech (and _certainly_ not the first time since she’d known him) that Fitz had gone off on a rant about something or another. In his defence, she’d done it plenty of times as well, and her friend could be a _very_ patient listener; it was the least she could do to offer him the same in return.

“I just can’t figure it out!” Fitz protested, “I mean, I know I’m an engineer and that I should _know_ this stuff, but I’m less interested in this specific coding and more interested in the computer programme we’re going to need to make them _work_.”

“Fitz, a computer programme _is_ coding.” Simmons pointed out, pouring the now boiled water into her cup and stirring it slightly before removing the tea bag.

“Yes,” Fitz said, “I _know_ that. But coding to make a computer programme do what I want it to do and look how I want it to look is _far_ different from getting an actual thing to move how I want it to move.” Simmons poured the milk into her tea until it was the colour of caramel, tipping in two spoonfuls of sugar because picking up her mug and crossing the room to look at the plans over Fitz’s shoulder.

“Well, here’s an idea,” she offered, “Write the coding for the actual robots as you would if they were a computer programme,” she pointed out a particular feature they had annotated, “Use that one first, that’s easiest. Make a completely new programme that’s main function is to process coding that’s supposed to make things move. Like a computer game.”

Fitz frowned, “Don’t we already have one of those?” he asked.

“Not one specific to the DWARFS,” Simmons pointed out. Fitz looked at her for a moment before cracking a smile.

“Well, we can try it.” He said, opening his laptop and getting to work.

 

*. . .*

 

When the first DWARF made its unsteady first flight three weeks later, Simmons was so happy she could cry.

When Fitz’s programme crashed halfway through and the small robot set itself on fire, he _actually_ cried.

Their SO couldn’t quite work out whether it was because he was upset that their first test run had ended the way it had, or because he was _proud_ that their first test run had ended the way it had.

The resulting interactions between FitzSimmons (which went on for seven hours straight and involved a lot of language even _he_ didn’t understand) was enough to convince him that he was _definitely_ not getting paid enough for his job, walking straight to Agent Weaver’s office and demanding a pay rise.

A month later, his bank account was considerably less empty.

 

* * *

 

Somehow, within the first two months, FitzSimmons managed to gain themselves a group of friends.

Neither of them had actually set out to do this, but suddenly they had people to sit with at lunch, and a group surrounding them when they were studying in the library.

It was with these friends that they first discovered the Boiler Room and there hadn’t been something that would have a worse effect on their studies since Netflix.

Everyone had expected Fitz to be a complete lightweight and a terrible drunk so, naturally they tried their very hardest to get him to consume as much alcohol as humanely possible (completely ignoring that fact that he was still a year shy of being the legal drinking age). As it turned out, Fitz’s Scottish roots actually did him some good, and after three drinking contests and five rounds of shots, he was reigning victor over the entire group.

Simmons on the other hand was a completely different story.

The only alcohol she’d ever had was the occasional glass of champagne at a wedding and one sip of wine at a Mass she’d been forced to attend with her grandparents one Christmas. However, she was very open to trying anything and everything she could get her hands on and it wasn’t long before her friends were thoroughly regretting ever dragging her away from her textbooks.

Before the night was out, Fitz had acted in his best friend’s interests and made the rest of the group swear to never say a word regarding Simmons’ drunk dancing, the fact that she cried when a complete stranger that she’d never met before lost a game of pool, or that she tried to take her shirt off. Eighteen times.

By the time he’d managed to pull her up the stairs and manoeuvre her to her dorm room without any superiors seeing her drunk, Fitz had lost all of the little upper body strength he possessed and could barely find the energy to walk himself back to his own room.

Nonetheless, he tucked Simmons up in bed, leaving a wastepaper basket lined with a plastic bag next to her bed for the inevitable consequences she’d be affected by the next morning, and left a glass of water and some painkillers on her bedside table.

Just before leaving he brushed some hair out of her face and she smiled, ‘hmm’ing quietly.

“Night, Leo.” She murmured. Fitz wasn’t entirely sure whether she was asleep or not but he grinned anyway.

“Night, Jem.”

**Author's Note:**

> This idea literally hit me out of nowhere but I thought it was cute so I wrote it and this was the result so yay. 
> 
> Leave a comment if you liked it/would like me to continue; it would make my day! 
> 
> (This was also posted on FF.net, so you may have seen it there before!)


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